Wednesday, 31 December 2008

Feeling a Proper Girlie ...

I will sit down and do a proper catch up of all the news over Christmas, but before I do so, I'd just like to say - I have the most wonderful wife-type-thing in the whole world. And, possibly for the first time in my whooole life, I think I've experienced being the recipient of real romance. Not that Fisher hasn't done romantic things for me, but nothing like this. Believe me.

So. My Christmas present took my breath away. She bought me this.

A Tag Heuer Aquaracer. Is it not stunning? I gazed upon it with awe in my heart and loved it instantly. But then Fisher said that, if I wasn't entirely sure about it, I could go back to the jeweller and see if any of the others caught my fancy. I thought long and hard, and decided that no, this one was what I wanted. But we had to go to the jeweller and get the strap adjusted, and while we were there Fisher had me look at all the other choices. There were 4, and each one I rejected, not liking them at all. Seemed like Fisher had done a fantastic job of picking out a gorgeous, elegant watch, exactly to my taste.

And then I saw it. My eyes widened slightly. I pointed it out to Fisher, just as an example of something beautiful.

"Oh, you can have that one if you want," she said blithely.

Oh my GOD. I protested. I objected. I spluttered and babbled. But Fisher had the jeweller take the watch from the window and strap it to my wrist.

Gorgeous. Just ... gorgeous. But unlike Fisher's choice, this was a dress watch. It had none of the robust durability of the Tag Heuer. I could either go for elegant beauty, worn rarely and only as an adornment - or Fisher's original choice, which I could look at every day.

I chose the pretty one. Then I changed my mind. I went for the Tag.

After changing my mind a couple more thousand times, I firmly, delightedly confirmed my choice. The Tag it was. And I skipped out of the shop with birdsong in my heart. I've wanted a beautiful watch for so long. Blarney bought me one for my thirtieth and it's gorgeous and I love it, but this one has diamonds on it!!!

Happyhappyhappy. Until today, when I woke a) feeling like shite on a shingle from an awful cough, merrily festered and fostered within Janus's system over Christmas and now residing painfully in my lungs, and b) with my new watch cutting off the blood supply to my wrist. The jewellers had made it too tight. So back Fisher went to get them to readjust it.

To cheer me up, she also bought me a couple of other presents. I hadn't really liked one of the presents she gave me over Christmas (some chunky wooden beads which were very nice, but not me - I'm chunky enough without making my jewellery emphasise the fact) so she took it back and bought me something else.

"Nothing big," she assured me, handing over a little wrapped package, "just something to cheer you up."

I opened it up, and inside was a dear little black purse with beading. Very pretty. I cooed, and felt very loved.

Oh - and the purse had this in it.


Can you believe that???

No. I know. Nor can I.

I fluttered between horrified at the extravagance and squealing like a proper princess. And, for once, the princess in me (and there is one, buried very very very deep) won hands down. I think I actually went doe eyed. And, yes, I squealed. A lot.

Fisher is just the best and I love her very, very, very much.


Monday, 8 December 2008

Too Much To Report!

Lordy, it's been so long since my last blog I've forgotten how to type.

Where was I? Frankly, who knows? I'll just have to try and think of all the things that have happened recently.

Firstly, there's the fact that Blarney is preggers. Owing to the fact I was massaging her for case studies at the time she found out, I had to know before anyone else. This was therefore my cue to badger her with weekly telephone calls, most of which she treated with kind tolerance, one or two of which provided an opportunity to tell me she was wigging out a bit about having no symptoms whatsoever and was therefore sure she was having a phantom pregnancy. No symptoms, that is, apart from the occasional bout of fatigue, nausea before eating, mood swings ...

I'd like to say now, that not telling your closest friends for 3 months is a stupid idea. It leads you down a path of deception entirely complicit with your friends (who obviously guess within about 3 seconds of you refusing your first alcoholic drink) respecting your privacy and not asking too many prying questions. Of course, Koios was about as subtle as a brick when it came to saying things like: "So what's wrong with you now?" which served only to make Blarney have to come up with some further deception. I understand that losing a foetus means then having to tell all your excited friends that you've miscarried, which is clearly pretty horrendous - but if everyone already knows, as our friends did, then they're going to know you've miscarried as well. Keeping a secret just involves lying a lot, and I can't say it's very healthy. I got round it by saying "all I know is that she would have had to tell me if she was pregnant, 'cos I was massaging her."

At no point did anyone ever say: "So did she tell you?"

I went with her and Spartan when she had her first scan, and my job was to calm her down (owing to the serious Wiggins she was quite naturally having). I decided I wouldn't let her sit in a coffee shop and just think about it, talk about it, and generally work herself into a state - so I refused to go into O'Brian's Sandwich Shop, saying it was a chain and "I don't do chains" and anyway, I wanted somewhere I could sit. So I forced her to show me a lingerie shop/café round the corner, and tried valiantly to profess a sudden interest in bras and pants. Unfortunately, I could only say "oo, that's pretty" a finite number of times, and as I don't possess Koios's ability to talk shite about underwear for hours, I had to take on board Blar's point that Spartan wouldn't exactly be happy having coffee surrounded by ladies' panties (and that if he was, it would open a whooooole new can of worms), so off we went. As I was still refusing O'Brian's, we spent the next 10 minutes prowling the streets in search of a pleasant café, with me hoping to stumble across something wildly exciting, thereby taking Blar's mind off the scan still further.

This didn't happen. In the end I dragged her, now fuming visbly, into the local church community centre, where I had the worst cup of coffee I've ever had in my life and we sat in a large, cafeteria-style hall which was both cold and, to Blar's nose, "reeking of pish." She was now so irate I decided the best thing to do was come up with some witty anecdote about something that had happened recently - but as all I could think about was shitty builders, I was a bit stumped. I didn't want to rant and rave at her. Unfortunately, Blarney then decided to tell me that Spar was very sorry, but the dinner party I was throwing the next day was a no-go. The Boys' Brigade were throwing him a wee birthday celebration, and he was double booked.

I'm sorry? 24 hours before we sit down for a 13 person meal, with choices off a menu, he tells me he can't come? A meal which I've carefully balanced for my brother's enjoyment? A meal where I've planned courses based on numbers? A meal, more to the point, that he has known about for 6 FUCKING WEEKS, for which he accepted an invitation, and which he is now ditching in favour of his FUCKING CULT! Now, I can't be sure, but I'm pretty positive that the BBs didn't give him 6 weeks notice. I'm also pretty positive that etiquette dictates the first invitation stands in such a circumstance. So what Spar was doing was:

1) Fucking up my table plan
2) Fucking up my meal plan
3) Ditching me in favour of a better invitation

All of which added up to one thing. It was FUCKING RUDE. And I do so hate rudeness.

At this point, I should mention that Wheeler had also ditched me only the day before, owing to the fact that he and his ex-wife can't behave like adults and create a schedule around their mutual son. I don't know what the story is there, but it seems the ex-wife is a complete flake and can't plan her way out of a paper bag. None of my business, and no judgement from me thangyewverymuch ... until it directly 1) Fucks up my table plan, 2) Fucks up my meal plan and 3) Ditches me in favour of a better invitation.

So I'm now 2 men down. My brother is coming up, I've said he'll get to see some of the people he hit it off with at the nedding - and now 2 of those people have flaked on me. We were already woman-heavy (no weight jokes please), so now Brother was going to be inundated with females. This isn't necessarily something that would bother him, but I was looking forward to being able to give him some blokes to talk to for a change. He's a man with 2 sisters for Christ's sake. I've got a heavily pregnant sister staying with me, my throat has closed up again (see previous posts for the joy that is my psycho-throat - something that has directly replaced psycho-tummy), my wee nephew Wrecker is adorable but exhausting, and one of my best friends is terrified her unborn wean is a blighted ovum. And I've got to cook a restaurant night meal for over a dozen people.

My tether - rather frayed - now snapped completely. The anger I had attempted to avoid over builders now spewed forth like liberated lava. Even while I was screaming to myself in my head to stop, stop, STOP by all that's holy, this is no way to soothe a frantic friend, I heard myself ranting on and on. Blarney weathered the storm as best she could, especially considering
she was bearing the brunt of fury that should have been directed at her husband. Eventually I managed to take deep breaths, grind my teeth to dust and get a grip on myself. Blarney looked like she'd soiled a couple of pairs of trousers, but didn't help matters by saying:

"We don't tell you these things because this is how you react."

News flash. If you tell me these things with some warning, I don't react like this. 24 hours? Come on!

Anyway, I managed to take deep breaths and get myself under control, which was good for Spartan as he completely avoided getting the bollocking he deserved. Unfortunately, when he arrived, what I'd feared would happen happened: Blar worked herself up into a state. By the time she was due to go to the clinic for her scan, she was about ready to declare herself barren forever more. Her terror directly transferred itself to me and I spent one of the most nerve-wracking hours of my life wandering around, attempting to shop in the retail desert that is the area round that clinic. I went to Habitat, to the lingerie-café again, and then loitered around the clinic door like a Dickensian waif hoping for scraps of Christmas goose.

When they eventually emerged, Blarney's face gave nothing away - but, of course, everything was fine. Blar's lack of symptoms were simply evidence of extreme good fortune. She then made up for it by vomiting freely the next morning - and when she turned up for the actual dinner party, her first words were:

"You're lucky I came at all. I nearly turned round and went home half way up the A9."

At that point I was up to my elbows in cooking and told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn't want to be there, she should feel free to go back to Edinburgh. She declined - but was feeling extremely rough, with a giant cold. I felt slightly sorry for her, but only because of her delicate state. Had she given me her greeting line when un-sprogged, I'd probably still be shouting at her now.

Anyway, the dinner was fine. Let's cut a long story short, eh? Brother's visit was very pleasant. My mother arrived at the beginning of December, and my father arrived a few days ago. We now have a blocked drain outside the house, which means excrement is bobbing around the outside of the pipe like little brown corks, and have just had a visit from some emergency plumbers. They've discovered the blockage is not within the first 8 metres. Woo hoo. They're coming back tomorrow though, so fingers, toes, legs etc etc crossed.

Big news. I have a new nephew, born this morning at around 1.30am. His name was almost Douglas, but I'm delighted to say it's not. I campaigned pretty hard for Dougal, but am very happy with their final choice. I shall be referring to him as Tertius from here on, though. He was 9 1/2 pounds and born in 2 hours, which seriously caught the folk at Ninewells on the hop. Fisher has already sobbed twice at the mere sight of his little face, and has only relinquished him from her arms after they were crowbarred.

I've missed out loads, but I'm bored now and must get something down, lest my vaaaast number of blogfans (5) think I've abandoned them.